“Oh, Shoz-Dijiji,” exclaimed the girl, “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that; but really you are mistaken in thinking that I love Lieutenant King.” “All right, next time I kill him.” “No, oh, no, you mustn’t do that.” “Why not? He is on the war-trail against me. He kill me all right, if he get the chance. If you no love him, I kill him.” “But he is my friend, my very good friend,” insisted the girl. “He is your friend, too, Shoz-Dijiji. If I ask you not to kill him will you promise me that you won’t?” “Shoz-Dijiji promise you he no try to kill King. Mebbe so, in battle, Shoz-Dijiji have to kill him. That he cannot help.” “Oh, Shoz-Dijiji, why don’t you come in and stop fighting us? It is so useless. You can never win; and you are such a good man, Shoz-Dijiji, that it seems a shame that you should sacrifice your life uselessly.” “No, we can never win. We know that, but what else is there for us? The white-eyed men make war upon us even in peace. They treat us like enemies and prisoners. We are men, the same as they. Why do they not treat us like men? They say that we are bad men and that we torture our prisoners and that that is bad. Do they not torture us? We torture the bodies of our enemies, but the white men torture our hearts. Perhaps all the feelings of the white-eyed men are in their bodies, but that is not so with the Shis-Inday. Bad words and bad looks make wounds in our hearts that hurt us more than a knife thrust in the body. The body wounds may heal but the heart wounds never—they go on hurting forever. No, I shall not come in. I am a war chief among the Be-don-ko-he. Shall I come in to be a ‘dirty Siwash’ among the white-eyes?” For a while the girl was silent after the Apache had ceased speaking. Their patient ponies stepped daintily along the rough trail. The descending sun cast their shadows, grotesquely, far ahead. The stifling heat of mid-day was gradually giving place to the promise of the coming cool of evening. “We are almost home,” said the girl, presently. “I wish you would come and talk with my father. He is not a bad man. Perhaps he can find some way to help you.” “No,” said Shoz-Dijiji. “His people and my people are at war. His heart is not friendly toward Apaches. It is better that I do not come.” “But you want to get Nejeunee,” insisted the girl. “You have told me where Nejeunee is. I will get him.” She did not insist, and again they rode in silence until the warrior reined in his pony just below the summit of a low hill. Beyond the hill, but hidden from their sight, stood the Billings ranch house. “Good-bye,” said Shoz-Dijiji. “I think perhaps we never see each other again. When the soldiers come back from Mexico we go back there and do not come to this country any more.” “Oh, Shoz-Dijiji,” cried the girl, “I do not want you to go.” “Shoz-Dijiji does not want to go,” he replied. “Your people have driven Shoz-Dijiji from his own country.” “I should think that you would hate me, Shoz-Dijiji.”